


Sweet Nothings

by alltheshinywords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: A late night counsel, a little too much wine... When Sansa needs convincing to not pawn herself off in another political marriage, Jon gets carried away explaining to her what she’ll be missing if she gives up on love.





	Sweet Nothings

“You know what the easiest solution would be,” Sansa murmured at last, drawing the full weight of Jon’s somber gaze.

The late hours of the night had begun to bleed into the early hours of the morning, and still Jon and Sansa were discussing the latest problems besieging Winterfell: namely, rumors of unrest amongst the Knights of the Vale. With Euron Greyjoy’s fleet rampaging through Westerosi waters and the Lannister army on the march, rumor had it that there were some among the southern armies who were questioning Littlefinger’s judgment in remaining so long in the north.

Davos had been present for the first few hours of discussion, but had retired early at Jon’s request so he could travel with the Karstarks early in the morning to oversee their provisions and give specific instructions to their blacksmith. That had left Jon and Sansa on their own, at a seemingly impassable stalemate. If the knights returned back to oversee the Vale, there could be no assurance they would return. If kept in the north against their will, they might well mutiny against the northern armies, especially if the Vale was attacked and lands and loved ones were lost.

Things were bleak enough that even normally no-nonsense Jon had poured himself some wine, and offered Sansa the same. As the night wore on and tensions ebbed and flared and sleep became increasingly elusive, one glass turned into several, and still they debated, until Sansa finally uttered the words that she and Jon had been dancing around all night:

“I could marry Baelish,” she said evenly, unflinchingly, “and secure the support of the Vale—”

“No,” Jon said, before she had even had a chance to finish the sentence, and his tone brooked no argument. “No, Sansa.”

She dropped into a nearby chair, rubbing wearily at her eyes. “We both know it’s only a matter of time before I’m married off to some lord or other to gain somebody’s allegiance.”

Jon remained standing, leaning against the table in a way that might have been menacing had Sansa not been able to read the panic in his gritted teeth and clenched fists. “I know no such thing, so don’t presume to tell me that I do.” Hearing the harshness in his own tone, he softened a little. “You’ve been bartered enough, Sansa. The next time you marry, let it be for love.”

She surprised him by laughing—a dull, mirthless sound. “Come now, Jon. We’re both too old for those sorts of songs.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “What ‘sorts’ of songs?” At Sansa’s silence, he prompted, “You mean love?”

“The song sung to all little girls to make them dream of being sold off to the highest bidder, forced to lie under him as he sweats and spills his seed, all because of the promise of romance and true love and babies.” She shuddered a little, not quite looking at him. “If I’m going to do it again, at least this time I can go into it with a clear head, and a purpose. At least I’ll know the devil I’m letting into my bed.”

Jon swallowed, and turned abruptly, pacing the room. Sansa watched the long shadow that he cast, the way the light flickered across his face. At last, he glanced over at her, face troubled. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Our father loved your mother, and she him—you saw that, surely.”

Another shrug from Sansa, who blinked and looked away. “They were good people. Maybe they convinced themselves of it to make the rest of it bearable.”

A long silence stretched between them. “I’ve loved,” Jon murmured quietly, so softly that at first she thought she must have misheard him.

Sansa’s eyes rose to his gaze, a question. Her hands fidgeted restlessly in her lap a moment before she folded them again, silencing them. “Who? When?”

Jon returned to the table, and took another long drink. He did not quite look at her as he explained, “Her name was Ygritte. She was a wildling—a warrior. She died.” He swallowed, and continued, “Things were complicated between us, but I did love her. And I believe—I know—she loved me.”

He dared a quick glance at Sansa, who seemed lost in some deep thought. When another moment passed and still she hadn’t answered, Jon cleared his throat and ventured, “Despite the bad, I wouldn’t have traded it.” He found her gaze, held it. “And neither should you.”

Sansa reached for her own glass and took a long drink. Jon thought he might have gotten through to her—until she raised her gaze to him again, neck flushed and face oddly defiant. “Did you bed her?”

Before he could stammer out a response through his own now-flushed face, Sansa pressed on, “Did she enjoy it?”

In the daylight, sober and well-slept, Jon would have never answered such a question. In the daylight, sober and well-slept, Sansa probably would have never asked it. But now, he found his own chin rising in quiet defiance, as he refused to break her gaze. “She did.”

“Maybe she only pretended to.”

It was Jon’s turn to give a short, humorless laugh. “Ygritte was not the sort to pretend anything, especially for the sake of my ego.” 

At that, Sansa looked away, looking suddenly miserable, and a little sick to her stomach. “Well then, maybe she was just lucky.”

And suddenly Jon saw through the insolence, and realized that Sansa’s description—lying still as a sweaty man spilled his seed into her—was probably one of the more bearable times she’d experienced the physical act of love, if the rumors about Ramsey Bolton were to be believed. If that was what she thought the relationship between a husband and wife entailed, no wonder she cared so little about marrying for any reason beyond a political alliance.

“It’s different when there’s love,” he told her softly. “It’s different when a man works to please you.” He blushed hotly at the words, but forced himself to explain, “And if he’s a good man, and gentle, and kind, he will work to please you.”

Sansa’s gaze startled up to him, hearing the echo of her father’s words so many years before when he’d told her of the kind of husband she should seek. She took another sip of wine for courage. “How?”

She could not look at him as she said it, and chewed her lower lip anxiously waiting for his response.

“Sansa,” he said in exasperation, and she could hear in his tone that he thought she was teasing him.

Sansa forced herself to look at him, forced herself to let him see the desperation she was trying so hard to hide. “I need to know.”

Under any other circumstance, Jon would have said, done, anything to help her, given her anything she needed. But she must be mad if she thought he would do this—

No. No. In truth, he knew what she was. She was sad. She was broken. It was the first thing he’d recognized in her after they reunited—not because it reminded him of the girl he once knew, but because in it he saw himself. And for whatever reason, the only person she trusted, she needed, was him. It stirred something in him, that knowledge, something he could not look at squarely in the face, not even this late, not even this drunk. It was easier to dismiss her as being silly, or naive, or controlling, any of the number of other things he’d tried to persuade himself of over the past few weeks to distance her just a little further, to keep her just a little safer distance away.

So he forced a little laugh now, tried to make it seem like it was all just a game. “Didn’t your mother already have this talk with you—”

She did not wait for him to finish, already on her feet and striding toward the door. Too late, he realized what he’d inadvertently pushed her toward—and, as if she had read his mind, Sansa spat as she reached the door, “Perhaps Lord Baelish won’t mind explaining it to me...”

“You’ll know it all in the first kiss.”

Later, as Jon replayed it in his mind, he’d tell himself the words escaped before he could stop them, but that wasn’t true. It was a choice, one deliberately made, and he’d made it. Gods forgive him, the choice had been his own.

But it stayed her at the door. She didn’t turn to face him, not yet, but she didn’t leave, didn’t rush out to offer herself up to Baelish. And that was something, wasn’t it? There was some kind of honor in that.

Jon wet his lips, and continued. “From that first kiss, he’ll tell you what he feels for you. If he loves you, it will be soft, at first. He’ll touch your face, your hair, and go slow, and wait for you to respond. And if you do, he’ll try to restrain himself, but it will be difficult, because gods, how he’ll want you. And he won’t quite believe his luck that you want him back.”

The words hung in the air a moment. He could tell Sansa was listening, though her back was still toward him, her hand still on the door.

Jon cleared his throat. “And it will be the same beyond that.” He gestured with his hand, though she wasn’t looking at him. “With the...bedding, and whatnot. The same idea, I mean, as the kiss.”

“How?” 

“Sansa—”

“Tell me, Jon.” Her hand on the door twitched a little, a warning.

“He’ll want to...explore all the different ways that please you, over time.” But still, she didn’t stir from the door, didn’t turn. Jon swallowed, and pressed on, “He might tell you how beautiful you are. Like nothing he’s ever seen before.”

Something like a sigh escaped from Sansa, and her head inclined forward ever so slightly. Taking that as encouragement, Jon pressed on, “He might let down your hair, and run his fingers through it. Brush it to one side, and kiss your neck.”

Sansa’s hand drifted up to touch her throat. “Do...do most women like that?”

“It won’t matter what most women like. This will be about exploring what you like. He’ll be listening for clues, like a quickening of breath.” Gods forgive him. “Or...little sounds of pleasure.”

“Oh.” Sansa waited a moment before pressing in a small voice, “What next?”

“When you’re ready, he’ll start to...undress you.”

Sansa stiffened visibly, and when her voice came out, it was sour once more. “Rip off my clothes, you mean, so he can stare at me and make crude comments.”

For a long moment, rage blinded Jon, robbing his voice. When he found his words again, they came out strained, though he tried his best to make his tone soft. “Not a man who loves you,” he assured her softly. “A man who loves you will want to look at you, but not to make you feel little or small. He’ll want to explore every part of you he can, because he won’t be able to believe just how beautiful you are.”

When he looked to her again, she had turned to face him. Her eyes were downcast, but she was breathing heavy, two spots of color high in her cheeks. 

Slowly, Sansa’s eyes raised to meet his. Jon knew he should look away, knew he should stand up and leave the room and end this conversation, never to mention it again. He did none of those things. Nor did Sansa say some pretty, diplomatic thing, and excuse herself. They continued to stare at one another, until Jon’s breathing began to match hers, shallow and heavy at the same time.

“He’ll want to worship you like the lady you are, with his eyes, and then his fingers, and his lips.” Jon’s breath caught, hitched. “His tongue.”

A whimper escaped Sansa’s throat, which made Jon instinctively harden. She bit her lower lip, which made him harden even more. “Where will he start?” she prompted, her voice a quiet murmur, though her eyes were blazing.

“Your breasts,” Jon answered immediately, not needing to think it over. He already had, after all, countless times. 

“What will he do with them?”

This time the words came tumbling out, and he really couldn’t have stopped them if he tried. “Hold them. Feel the weight of them in his hands. Run his fingers over your nipples until they’re pert and hard, then suckle on them as you moan and squirm and buck against him.”

Sansa half-collapsed back against the door, and he could see her legs shifting together underneath her skirt. When she spoke, she was breathless. “What next?”

“A trail of kisses down your belly, until he reaches the sweet curls at your cunt.”

Another low moan, half strangled in her throat. Her fingers splayed out against the door, bracing.

“He’ll nudge your legs apart, and slowly, slowly, lower himself to that sweet spot that’s aching...”

He let the words dangle in the air, watching the flurry of emotion on Sansa’s face, usually so composed. Anticipation, first, then mounting frustration the longer he didn’t speak. “Jon,” she gasped, half-reprimand, half-plea.

Jon gripped the underside of the table, half-undone himself by the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice. “And when he finds it, he’ll—”

A knock at the door, so sudden and out of place that Sansa let out a strangled cry. For a long moment, she and Jon stared at one another, sobriety returning with that reminder from the world outside.

Then, covering her face with one hand, she opened the door and all but fled out of the room.

“My lady—” It was Davos, half through the door now and looking after her in shock. He turned back to Jon. “Is she unwell? I heard a scream...”

Under normal circumstances, Jon would have risen to his feet, enraged. Wisely, he remained seated, though his hand gripped at the table for an entirely different reason now. “I told you not to return until the morning. We were in private counsel—”

“It is morning, your grace,” Davos returned quietly.

Jon blinked, and looked to the windows, which were still shuttered tight, though nonetheless the blue-grey of early morning still bled through.

When he looked back at Davos, he found the other man examining him carefully. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was something almost...uneasy in the older man’s eyes, though perhaps it was only his own imagination, and guilt.

“Forgive me,” Jon said at last, and attempted a smile. “It’s been a long night. Do you need anything before you ride to Karhold?”

“No, your grace.”

Jon nodded to him in parting. “Then godspeed.”

Davos nodded, turned to leave—and paused in the door. “Your grace...”

Jon waited, tensing. “Yes?”

After a moment, Davos shook his head. “Never mind.”

And with that, he was gone. Jon waited until the door was securely shut and he could hear the older man’s footsteps fading down the hall before letting out a sigh of relief.

Any relief was short-lasted, alas. As the past few minutes returned to him and Jon relived what had passed between him and his sister, he knew he would need to make some kind of apology. Write a letter, perhaps. Take full responsibility for what had taken place, and assure her it would never happen again.

Or perhaps not, Jon thought as he remembered the canny look in Davos’s eye, the way he had opted to simply leave and keep his mouth shut. There was a power in words, after all.

And some things were better left unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I try to stay spoiler free but haven’t been able to avoid some things floating around online. If you’ve managed to do so, avoid reading the rest, although it’s purely speculation on my part. SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER. All the talk of Jon potentially bedding Dany to save the North made me think about how often Sansa has had to barter her body for her life, then wonder if maybe Jon has convinced himself it would be better to sell his body for once instead. And as much as I hate the idea of it, that would be just like goddam noble Jon Snow, to pimp himself out so Sansa doesn’t have to. Yeah, just some headcanon, but from it this plot bunny was born. Hope you enjoyed!


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